All In
by cake-error
Summary: Do you know why I hurt people? Because insanity is a good place to hide. Because if I hurt people first, they can't hurt me. Because it stops me from going all in and hurting myself.  RussiAmerica


A very quickly written oneshot, dug up from the mess that is my folder of Hetalia stories.

* * *

"Do you know why?" He suddenly burst out.

America looked at him patiently. "Why what, Ivan?"

He flinched. "Don't call me that."

No response.

"Do you know why I hurt people?"

No response. He kept talking into the silence. "Because insanity is a good place to hide. Because if I hurt people first, they can't hurt me. Because it stops me from going all in and hurting myself."

He nodded silently.

"I could hurt you, you know."

"I'm not afraid of you."

He scowled. "Do you doubt me?"

His tone was pleasant, as if he was talking about the weather. "Because I know I could never hate you."

"Don't say that. You hate me."

"What do you want me to say, then?"

_Say that you hate me, throw me out, hurt _me_ before I hurt _you_, before it's too late. _He didn't respond.

"I'll never be afraid of you. You can't hurt me like that."

Eyes blazing with a ferocious insanity, he stood up. "_Never_. Say that again," He snatched up his pipe, which moments ago had been laying innocently against the table, and let it swing freely, not caring where it landed. The satisfying ringing sound of metal striking something filled his ears and left a buzzing sensation. He stormed out, not caring one bit about anything else, ignoring the fact that the only sound in the room was the clunk of his shoes against the floor and a steady dripping rhythm. Not one sound came from the nation that still sat there, not moving a muscle, and he blocked him out with a passion, trying not to see the hurt expression that would be waiting for him.

!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!

He cradled his head in his hands, traitorous tears dripping from his eyes. Wiping them away angrily, he leaned back, the stifling silence in his empty house slowly suffocating him.

How could he hate him, if he never raised a hand against him?

Now that he thought on it, he was really his only friend. The only one brave and strong enough to reach through the insanity and try to heal him. And what had he done? Lashed out and probably broken some of his bones.

Why was he so infuriatingly, abysmally _stupid_?

He supposed he wasn't welcome, then.

The next meeting was in...He tilted his head towards the wall and squinted through his watery eyes. Three days, then. He would have to face him.

Would he just be calm, as if nothing happened? Or especially nice to him?

He could ignore him.

Yes.

Let him decide.

!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!

Pulling his scarf more firmly around his neck, he sat in the almost deserted meeting room. German sat a ways down the table, setting his papers in order and answering the occasional text from his brother. He closed his eyes and thought of Prussia. That silver hair, bright red eyes the exact opposite of those blue he swore he would not think about...

Several more nations filed in, Italy among them. He took his place beside Germany, setting his things on the table and smiling brightly as he gave him a hug.

A loud commotion sounded down the hall. It sounded like England shouting, France trying to pacify him, and that other person-what was his name?-arguing back in a surprisingly loud voice.

The door slammed open, and England stalked inside, frowning, green eyes glowing vitriolically. France took his labeled seat next to him, eying him fearfully and sitting cautiously.

Who was he? Oh, Canada-he stormed in, obviously still mad, curly hair bobbing up and down as he stomped over to his chair. Floating behind him, blue eyes dark and shadowed, and for once being silent as his brother normally was, America made his way to his chair and sat, wincing slightly.

His eyes widened as he saw the extent of the damage.

His right arm was bandaged slightly, the stiff white fabric poking through his sleeve, and by the way he held himself, it probably extended down his torso. It seemed haphazard, as if pulled together with his teeth through a haze of pain. His eyes looked bruised, and a clump of his hair was tinged red. Another pang of remorse shot through him.

Willing himself to stay calm, he stared blankly in front of him, conjuring up an angry purple aura to match his mood and hopefully fend people away.

Oh, who was he kidding?

He craved their shouting, wanted them to beat him senseless. No, he wanted _America_ to. He wanted to see the tears of joy from his perfect blue eyes, like pieces of fallen sky, wanted that perfect mouth to stretch into a grotesque scowling mockery of a smile, wanted him to stand there laughing as he knelt down in front of him, every fiber of his body filled with pain and longing adoration.

Forcing himself to concentrate, he took notes laboriously, not bothering to register what they were saying. He rose, gave his presentation in a dull monotone, answered what few questions were raised, and shuffled back to his seat.

Finally, only a half hour left.

America stood painfully, carrying his papers to the podium at the front of the room, and clicked on his presentation, bringing it to the screen.

He could place a bet on it (and probably win) that not one nation was paying any attention to what flashed up on the screen.

"America, dammit, what the hell happened to you?"

"Yes, aru, seriously. Did you get beaten up?"

"I beg your pardon if our questions are impolite, America-san, but what happened?"

"Ve, it must hurt!"

He began to tremble slightly, forcing himself to meet his gaze. Would he hate him now?

Germany stood up. "Let him speak!" Turning to America, he said in a considerably softer voice, "America?"

In a broken voice, he began to speak. "I was not beaten up, yes it does hurt, and no, I'm not going to waste any time on this now. If you don't mind, we have a meeting." He averted his gaze from Russia's, ignoring him solidly as he went on about climate change or some other thing he really didn't give a damn about now.

!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!

After the meeting, he took the longest getting his things together, even though he had brought little. By the time he had finished, no one was there.

What really hurt?

America had left first.

!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!

Standing in front of the door, and pulling at the edges of his scarf, he waited patiently.

The door unlocked, and a voice murmured faintly to _come inside_.

He pushed down on the door handle, let the door swing open gently, and stepped into the house.

The first thing that struck him was _it's much too clean_.

Indeed, the house barely looked lived in. A fine layer of dust covered most of the rooms, as if they had been left untouched. He stumbled forward into the living room and saw a splash of red on the pure white carpet. Shaking slightly now, he took the stairs and pushed open the door to his bedroom.

Sitting in a cocoon of quilts, America lay on his bed, eyes staring unfocusedly at the ceiling, new bandages decorating his arms.

He felt an insane laugh claw at his throat, and tried to stop himself from running to him and begging for forgiveness. After all, when you throw yourself someone's feet, you're bound to get kicked in the face.

But that was the reasoning that brought him here.

America sat up, smiling slightly. He scooted over and patted the part of his bed that he was not occupying.

He crossed the room and sat on the offered spot, shivering and starting to cry again.

"Please don't."

His voice cut through the mire of self-hatred, clear and calm. Staring confusedly up at him, he said, "What?"

"It's not that bad. We heal fast from these kinds of things."

His voice broke. "That's not it. How can you still be nice to me? I hurt you. I-I can't-I don't know..."

"I could never hate you." He whispered. "I can't, because I love you."

He pulled away abruptly. "You can't! No, you can't love me. I am insane. There is nothing for you to love."

His face was serious. "Do you love me?"

He choked on the words. "Yes, but that-"

"Then nothing else matters."

He let him hug him and buried his face into his shoulders.

!_!_!_!_!_!_!_!

"Thank you," he whispered again. He shivered and pulled him closer, feeling the bandages chafe against his bare skin.

"You're welcome," came the sleep muddled response. A pair of blue eyes looked up at his own purple, glowing in the darkness.

That was all that mattered.

* * *

I love RussiAmerica...and yeah, they can't do anything _fun_ until he heals, so you don't get any yaoi. I might write some as a separate oneshot, later...I'll tell you if I do...


End file.
